


Dancing in 5/4

by mintboy (orphan_account)



Series: Put a Record On [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music Store, Band Fic, Fluff, Humanstuck, M/M, Meet-Ugly, Musicians, One Shot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 07:08:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16445165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/mintboy
Summary: Dave, an employee at a indie record store, decides his social life is officially over when he critiques an album negatively right to its artist's face.For my boyfriend.





	Dancing in 5/4

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KittyMotor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyMotor/gifts).



The Vinyl Frontier is a small, humble record shop nestled between a vegan coffee-shop and an expensive wool boutique on a busy street in Philadelphia. It brings in a wide array of customers - everyone from the most pretentious of record collectors to curious tourists. 

Hailing from Texas, it’s a breath of fresh air to meet some people who aren’t exclusively into country music and generic EDM. And, though I’ve run into my fair share of annoying, just-walked-out-of-the-MoMA, vegan try-hards looking for obscure indie music, I much prefer them to the people I used to sell CD’s to in the CD-rental store I worked at in Houston. 

Speaking of CD’s, we sell those too. We specialize in new and used records, yeah, but we have a whole section of underrated, just-released indie artists on CD. The type trying to get big, doing little gigs all around the Philly area - some just signed and on their way up, some burning their own CD’s and making a deal with the store’s owner, who is crazy about that sort of thing. He’s a stout, old man who is just enough in the millenial scene to like alternative music, but not enough to think gay people should get married, somehow. We get along when we don’t talk about politics; especially the politics of the music we sell. Indie bands are into politics. 

I tap my fingers on the front counter to the beat of the song playing, bobbing my head a little. We’ve got speakers hooked up, obviously. What kind of record store doesn’t play music? It’s connected to a local indie station, a little one. The two most frequent hosts clearly have different interests, one heavily into lo-fi and the other being into noise. They couldn’t be more different, and it seems to be an ongoing battle of which they decide to play, when they aren’t meeting the requirements for their daily tracklist. 

Right now, Flora Cash is playing. I like them, though some have dismissed their music as “overplayed”. 

I look around the store. There are a few people browsing the records quietly. It’s small - small enough that we only need one security camera. The walls are painted black and red, but the paint is old and chipping. The almost-burnt-out overhead LED light is made up for but dozens of strands of hanging lights, which somehow don’t make the atmosphere too odd. On the right side of the store are the records, and on the left, backing up against the wall by the counter, are the CD’s. On the back wall is a glass case full of miscellaneous musical memorabilia and old record players. Some of the stuff in there is for sale, some isn’t. It changes every day. 

I fix my shades, which had started slipping down my nose, and lean back in my chair. It’s an old rolling chair that slides down after you sit in it for too long. I throw my legs up on the counter, and a couple pairs of eyes find me for a moment, before going back to the records. I pick at my black nail-polish, which is already imperfect from chipping. 

My eyes fall on someone making his way over to the CD’s. He’s attractive; that’s why I notice him. He seems a little familiar, but I dismiss it as the fact he might have been in the store before. He picks up one of the CD’s, examining it critically. 

He’s wearing a black tank top and shorts, a black and red flannel wrapped around his waist. It is quite a lot warmer in the store than it is outside. His arms are sleeved in neat, blackwork tattoos. His messy hair peeks out of the top of the beanie he’s wearing, and I can see the bottoms of his ears, which are stretched into small, dime-sized gauges. As he examines the album in his hand, he plays with the end of what I can only assume is a piercing in his mouth. As he turns his head slightly, I realize they are snakebites. 

He’s hot. I’m not going to deny it. He glances over to me, and I let my gaze fall down on the papers I have splayed across the counter. Most are the merchant end of my receipts, others are letters from companies and individual artists looking to get in on the CD-selling-action. 

“Hey,” says a voice, and I look up. It’s the attractive guy. I kick my feet off of the counter, moving to instead prop my elbows up on it. My feet find the base of the chair, shoving it back upward. 

“How can I help you?” I ask. He looks a little surprised; it’s probably the accent. I get that a lot here - I don’t exactly sound like I hail from Philly, or even the surrounding area. I’ve got a distinct, Southern drawl that seems to throw customers. I think it helps me in the end, though. People think it’s charming, somehow. 

He puts down a few CD’s on the counter. Two of them are relatively popular artists, at least among what we have; Christine and the Queens and Mitski. The third one is Tuii, a more obscure band. I’ve been fans of them for a while - they hail out of the Philly area, and just got signed by a record label. We’ve carried some of their work in the past, but on little CD’s with hand-designed covers, and in very limited amounts. When we got them, I’d always take one for myself, to make sure I had a copy before they sold out. 

“Interesting choices,” I remark, pulling out the receipt book to scribble them down. 

“Oh?” he raises an eyebrow at me. Up close, he’s even more attractive. He meets my gaze from behind my shades with warm, brown eyes. 

“Yeah, I mean, these two are pretty popular in comparison to the third, that’s all,” I tap the first two CD’s with my poorly painted nails. 

“You know Tuii?” he asks. 

Crossing out the word ‘Queens’, which I had accidentally spelled incorrectly, I don’t look up as I answer. 

“Hell yeah, my guy, I’ve listen to, like, all their stuff,” I reply, “I’m not a big fan of that album, though.” 

“Why’s that?” he sounds like he’s holding a little bit of anger back in his voice, and I finally glance up. I wonder, absently, if I’ve hit a nerve. Maybe he’s an even bigger fan of these guys than I am. 

“I guess it’s just a lot … different,” I wave my hand vaguely, “I’m no expert on music, don’t get me wrong. I was just a fan of the more raw stuff. It seemed, like … very clean cut, and like some of the meaning kind of left. I dunno.” 

The tension in the man’s jaw slackens a bit. 

“That makes sense,” he replies, “I guess we’ll try something different next time. It’s fucking hard to adjust to a company telling you what to do.” 

I freeze. 

“... What do you mean?” I ask. I can feel the color leaving my face. If this guy is who I think he might be, I think I just ended my own social life. 

“I’m Karkat Vantas,” the man responds, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, “I’m the vocalist in Tuii.” 

Yeah, okay, time to die. I run a hand across my mouth, pursing my lips. I just told the  _ singer _ of a band I  _ like _ that I didn’t like  _ his _ album directly to  _ his _ face. It’s time to quit my job and move to the Himalayas and become a monk, doomed to think of this exact moment for the rest of eternity. 

“I - oh my god, I’m so fucking sorry, dude,” I sputter out, finally. I can feel my heart beating in my face. 

The guy laughs. It’s a nice laugh. I can hear the way he sings in his laugh. 

“It’s okay, really,” he responds, rolling his eyes, “I see where you’re coming from.”

“Jesus Christ, I can’t believe I fucking said that, oh my  _ god _ , I’m such a fucking idiot,” I put my face in my hands, my fingers awkwardly finding places to sit around my shades. 

“Seriously, fucking calm down,” Karkat puts one of his hands down on the counter. I pull my hands from my face, sighing shakily. I follow his hand back up to his face, my eyes crawling across his tattoos. Once I’m looking at him again, he continues, “look, I know it’s not our best album. I appreciate your input, honestly. I don't really like it either.” 

I nod, my mouth feeling dry with humiliation. He picks up the CD, looking at it for a second. 

“I was going to buy it to make sure the company didn’t cut anything out. They didn’t send us one, you know. I don’t know how much I trust these fucking places. I don’t want some record label wrapping us up in wires we can’t get out of,” he explains, suddenly, and his eyes find me again, “you know, this one was for my ex-girlfriend. I could write the next one for you, maybe it would sound better.”

He winks, and I feel all the heat in my body rush to my face. 

“I, uh,” I stutter, “I.”

He laughs, again, and it’s melodic. His voice is beautiful. It’s rough and smooth all at the same time; it’s soothing and sweet. 

“You think you could give me your number on that receipt? Just in case I, you know, have a problem with these,” he gestures towards the CD’s, but he keeps looking at me. 

His eyes are like watching a fire behind a pleasant brown screen. It dances with a soft warmth just behind his irises. 

“I … yeah, I can do that,” I cough, rubbing one of my cheeks, as if it will usher away the heat in them. I scribble down my number in the bottom corner of his copy, ripping it away, “how about I, uh, just charge you for the other two. I don’t think you should have to pay for that one.” 

I glance at the CD in his hand. It is his, after all. 

“Oh, thank you,” he smiles. It’s radiant. It makes my heart soar a little. I put the other two CD’s into a small plastic bag, handing it to him. 

“I’ll talk to you later, okay?” he says, his hand drifting off of the counter. 

“Yeah, that’s … awesome,” it feels like my mind is spinning; words aren’t really coming to me. Butterflies spread their wings in my stomach and flutter up to my head. 

He pulls the flannel out from around his waist, slipping it on. He pushes open the door halfway, but turns to look at me one more time before he leaves. 

“By the way, you’re cute when you blush.” 

I feel my face heat up more and cover it with my hand. 

“Thanks,” I croak, looking down. 

Letting out another laugh, music all in itself, he slips back out onto the street. I lean back in my seat, rubbing my eyes under my shades. 

The hit off of Tuii’s latest album starts on the radio, and I find myself laughing as Karkat’s voice rings in my ears. My phone lights up. That must be him, I think, and a sort of giddiness blooms in my chest. 

Maybe I won’t become a reclusive mountain-monk. It seems I’ve got better things to do. 


End file.
